


Young Gods

by brimwick



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst, Ballet, Ballet Dancer Katsuki Yuuri, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Gay, Kings & Queens, Knight AU, M/M, Oops, Romance, Royalty, VictUuri, also victor is a kickass fighter, he is a prince too, lowkey a slow burn, prince AU, yuri is victor's dancer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-02
Updated: 2018-11-08
Packaged: 2019-08-14 11:38:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16491851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brimwick/pseuds/brimwick
Summary: The Crown Prince of the flourishing nation of Yamen, Yuri Katsuki, is one day unexpectedly receiving visitors from the north. After an underhanded trick, the young boy is left alone, with only the stories of the land beyond the mountains to serve as his compass. Love, politics, and passion all collide into each other head first during the events of Young Gods."Always young. Always beating. Always on the break of a sunrise. Swallowing midnight whole. Young boys, feverish and naive, cupping the entire world in their palms.The crown sits horrid on a body missing its other half."





	1. half-moon grins

_The steely blue eyes of the boy half-snow storm half-icy heels blinked against the snowflakes feathered between his eyelashes. Who knew snow angels could rise into flesh?_

_________________________________

HIS HAIR HUNG thickly and lopsidedly, identical to his boyish grin, sitting unsteadily against his swing set dimples. He was cream and butternut and a ship carved from black walnut strung only by the finest wool or cotton- he was a prince, after all. Black curls framed his face like a halo if it wasn’t for the fringe discarded across his forehead, he may have looked grown; if only the onslaught of kingly robes and silks could change the youth in his face. Then he might look like ivory and manhood.

“Yuri!” The serving boy called. Prince Yuri sat nonchalantly against his bed. His head laid softly against the midnight fabrics. He had been mindlessly throwing dice, his eyes long and distant, peering through his mind for childish escapism. 

At the sound of an intruder, however, the skittish Yuri flung forward and quickly found his standing. “Yes?” He replied to the engraved door.

“Your father wishes to have counsel with you.” The servant replied. Yuri nodded, but when realizing the boy could not see the movement, threw a prompt ‘of course, one second!’ before quickly scurrying to the other side of his chambers to wash his face. Still bleary and eyes sanded with dreams and midday napping he scrubbed out all the grime between flesh. His lips, thin and arched, cracked with crinkled saliva which he made haste in wiping off. 

Yuri’s father was a powerful modest king who enjoyed keeping his kingdom safe far more than parties or charades-- a rare trait amongst kings nowadays, many would be quick to point out. And Yuri inherited this trait of his father’s quite well, almost scarily so. The boy, although entitled to riches and power, held not an ounce of confidence within his short frame. Lanky and nimble he did not resemble the taut bodies of the warrior boys whose bodies resemble bow strings always. Pulling. Flexing. Flying.

Yuri finished his commute to his father’s hall. The door was large and impending. Made of foreign cypress wood etched with olive figures and emerald rimmings. Golden details mapped the entrance’s edges. And beside those valuable craftsmanships and shows of great precision, lay a handful of guards, all mountains and broad shoulders. Noses, as straight as an arrow, except the one on the far left. His nose was bruised and bent awkwardly like a youthful boy’s hip bones. Yuri pondered what had happened to it to leave it in such a state. 

But none the matter, the unworldly state of the door meant nothing to the prince, as he had seen it so many times and knew greater still of the treasures beyond its surface. The guards respectfully bowed to the princely boy and made way for his arrival. 

Strange. Yuri thought. They don’t usually get like this. Not for a simple summoning. 

Yuri’s confusion was answered when the doors opened to reveal a fleet of foreign men. All wide-eyed and pale as unripe cherry blossoms. Yuri’s eyes snapped to his father’s. The man sat proudly atop his throne, regarded his only child warmly.

“Yuri, you’ve made it.” His father chimed. His mother sat right beside her husband. She was talking to a young light-haired girl to her left, earnest and interested, providing her son with only a nod of acknowledgment before returning to her conversation. 

Yuri coughed. He stepped forward among the rounds of men and he all but pleaded with his father through eye contact alone: tell me, what is this? Are we in danger?

The king only smiled. Amusement feathered behind his onyx eyes like a weathered storm cloud brimming with barely contained thunder. The action was only noticed by his son, however, but it was enough for Yuri. Not enemies, at least, not yet. 

“Yuri, meet King Egor of the Northern State of Vuk. He has come to seek alliance and shelter in times of war. King Egor, this is my son, Crown Prince Yuri of Yaman.” The King of Yaman announced. King Egor, a tall and stubby man, bent forward in respect. 

“It is nice to meet you, Prince Yuri. I have heard only good things about your plentiful lands.” He smiled. His eyes were daggers and his beard twisted like a thick-bulbed snake. His lips ripped at one side horribly, looked almost sneering in their state of grinning. His ears were a bit too large and his wrists oddly small. And his hair, short and jagged, reminded Yuri of the seaside rocks by the coastline that would always snag at the hull’s of ships during departure. His voice, again Yuri contemplated, was all sea salt and winter months. 

“Thank you. It has been an exceptionally good year for us. We are grateful for our lands.” Yuri replied in his princely voice. He tried to dull his accent for the sake of formalities but could feel his heritage rip into the syllables of ‘exceptionally’ without his consent. He cringed, anxiety shooting through him.

The foreign king only laughed. “And, it seems, the queen of these lands has taken quite the liking to my daughter.” He offered.

Oh, yes. The light-haired one. Yuri remembered. His eyes immediately flirted over to the lady. She was tall and lean. Almost fish-like in her appearance and mannerisms, her ocean blue eyes splashed with amusement, her dimples pulling like gills into her strong cheeks. She was older than Yuri by several years. Her flaxen hair laid like silk down the curve of her spine. She looked alive. The queen smiled brightly.

“Yes, she is quite witty. Yuri, you must come to meet her.” His mother supplied. Yuri cringed, but obeyed, weaving his way around the masses of men to join the feet of the large thrones. A serving girl had swiftly grabbed a satin chair for the prince and princess and sat them at his mother’s legs.

“Yuri, meet Anastasia. She is Egor’s daughter. She is also one of the best singers of the north, isn’t that right, Anastasia?” The Queen of Yamen pressed. The girl flushed red in embarrassment and quickly averted her head to her lap.

“That is what some say.” Her attention now gave solely to her lap. Yuri, stiff as a beam, eyed the girl curiously. 

“I’ve also been told you are skilled in instruments, is that right?” Yuri’s mother sat easily on her velvet throne. Gold etchings framed the handles of the masterpiece and dark purple cloths hung like tapestries on its trunk. 

“Yes, some do proclaim I have skill in instruments.” Her long hair fell in front of her face. She seemed bashful and shy, unlike the strong, confident girl Yuri first witnessed upon reaching the hall.

“Well, that's fantastic! We’ll just have to hear you play at dinner then. It will be amazing. Isn’t that right, Yuri?” Yuri’s spine peaked at the call of his name. The northern girl’s head suddenly bobbed at the question, large fish eyes meeting Yuri’s almond ones, innocent and wary. 

“If she wants- I mean, of course, it will be amazing, regardless of her feelings. But more so- not more, but perhaps more enjoyable; to herself, not to others, as either way it will be pleasant. But, yes, it would be nice to those dining.” Yuri’s ramble slipped past his tongue and scraped against his teeth. His throat felt dry with smoke as his hands started to slicken with sweat. The girl could barely stifle her laugh.

His mother grinned. All pearly teeth and perfect skin. “Well said, little one.” She jested. Yuri dished out a half-moon grin, and his eyes eased towards the princess, her face more open in amusement. He mimicked her in relief.

_________________________________


	2. feasting on vocal chords

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri Katsuki attends an extravagant dinner and becomes enchanted and fearful in the span of one moon's trip over the night sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! one slight change. in the first chapter i was referring to yuuri katsuki as "yuri," however, i'll be changing the spelling from this moment onwards.

_"I think in a past life we were lovers." The silence that preceded was heavy with emotion and thoughts caught behind unsure lips._

_The white-haired boy grinned. What tragic love story befallen them both in the past? He could feel it in his chest. A broken lyre, a raw flute, a splintered violin. An orchestra between ribs. His lips grew only more confident._

_________________________________

IT WAS LATER THAT EVENING, at dinner, that he next saw the northern princess. The King, his daughter, and their most trusted advisors and superb warriors were seated at the table. His father sat regally at one end of the long furniture, while the northern king flanked the other side. Anastasia sat near Yuri’s father, besides the Queen of Yamen, and across from Yuuri’s sister. 

The table in question was elegant and simple. Handcrafted from ash wood, the table was stained a cherry black, small swirls etched into the polished piece. Sturdy chairs crowded the table’s sides. Tall, handled and cushioned with the nice fabrics of the east. Incense, sandalwood and lavender, smoked the room from the various pots and reeds scattered about burning the scents. 

Yuuri took his place by his father’s side. Next to his sister and across from his mother. If he had not known better, Anastasia would have looked like an adopted daughter, not looking the tad bit out of place next to his mother.

“Hello, little brother.” Yuuri’s sister, Mari, breathed out jokingly between her puffs of safdon. It was a long stick, hollowed out in the center, thinner than the neck of a goose’s feather. A pan of dust sat idly by her elbow. Every so often she would dip the end of the stick into the bowl, roll the material around so the substance is coated thickly against the wooden edge, and strike the instrument against the side of the pan. There was attached a strip of dark metal on its surface, rested under a charred cloth. The sudden hit sent the stick into an ember glow and Mari would pull the cigar to her lips and sip the substance slowly. It was a western invention that his sister seemed to love feverishly.

Her eyes were hooded as she took in Yuuri’s form. “Hello. Have I missed much?” Yuri worried. He had been out with Phichit Chulanont, a noble boy visiting from the farthest ends of the east, whom Yuuri had grown quite close to in the last couple of months. The boy, as Yuri would describe, was cinnamon and spice. He was small animals rising from their burrows at the wake of spring and diving once more into their hideouts at the first signs of winter. The boy was funny and smart. His smile never ceased to lighten any mood. His hair, wilder than an Indian tiger, matched his feral eyes perfectly. 

“No, soon enough the first course should be out.” His mother answered for her. A small boy came over and pulled out Yuuri’s chair. He sat down, eyeing his sister. 

“Hopefully. I am starving.” The Princess of Yamen huffed. She tapped her stick impatiently against the rim of the pan and her eyes flickered like candlelight. “What is taking so long?” 

“Patience.” His father corrected. “Good things and swiftness are not likely friends.” Yuuri almost smiled. The line was from one of his father’s favorite philosophers. It was a Yamen man, long deceased by now, who wrote countless words of wisdom against a tablet later translated into soft, thinned, and hard-pressed books for the public to enjoy. His name was Shino. No other titles nor surnames were known. Now that Yuuri had thought about it, Shino had talked about the northerners once. Yuuri shivered. The phrase he had used when describing them was ‘barbaric and cold.’

The food’s delivery came swiftly and the chamber doors burst open readily. Footmen, long and lanky and short and stout, streamed out of the doorway handling plates of freshly made cuisine. Large, golden, basins held large amounts of famous Yamen rice- always boiled, steamed, or cooked and then dried, as customary. Some of the rices were found to be mixed with other seasonal vegetables. Thick porridge and rice cakes came along with the train of men. Large flanks of soy sauce made from soybeans were placed along the table’s length. Platters of red beans, Yamen sweet potatoes, bamboo shoots, cucumbers, onions, yams, and radishes quickly pursued the serving men. 

And then the meat was presented. 

An undefinable amount of seafood swept over the enormous table rapidly. Octopus, fish, crabs, and other ocean-borne creatures were placed seasoned and pretty in any available crevices the table offered. The food’s sweet fragrances overtook the room. Salt, ginger, mint, garlic, vinegar, fish broth, honey, rice jelly, walnut and sesame oil, and even the sweet vegetables smelled of amazura, a thick paste made by pressurizing wild grapes; known for its unique sweet taste. 

The sandalwood and lavender incense was quickly overpowered by the harsh spices and slick oils wafting to the tip tops of the room. Even a large boar was brought out, sat hulking in the center of the table, to showcase the country's fruitfulness to the visiting royalties. Fruits: peaches, oranges, tangerines, strawberries, pomegranates, plums, loquats were even set out to be dined on. Large vases of spring water, milk and wines accompanied the impressive arrangements. 

To say the very least, the King of Vuk’s jaw was slack, gaping like his fish-like daughter's awestruck expression. His men could not be said to show any difference, as their faces rested on the floor, staring wildly at the feast before them. 

Yuuri's father gracefully tipped a bronze flask of honeyed wine into his stemmed cup. Rubies, emeralds, and gold polished the disk. 

He slowly held the drink up to his lips. He smelled its scent, a sunrise of a smile creaking the edges of his mouth before he took a sip of the liquid. His Adam's apple bobbed with the approaching wine and a sigh rushed from within his chest. 

“Tonight, my good men,” His pearly canines played with shadows under the low light. His pupils hissed with pride and his sagging wrinkles lifted in show. His eyes fluttered down, for maybe half a second, and he quickly remarked. “And, of course, my exceptional women.” Loving eyes yielded to his wife’s powerful gaze and her features were overtaken by joy and amusement. Anastasia smiled too. Mari simply smirked, only long dull clouds of smoke came from her nose in response, like a water dragon’s snore. 

“Tonight is a night due for celebrations. We welcome our neighbors from the north. Who have traveled long and hard, carried great tales, experienced great feats, and now sit with us to dine under the heavens. We present the finest the Great Empire of Yamen has to offer. Eat, my friends, and feast like real kings!” Shouts echoed through the chambers as hungry men reached over each other to pile their plates high with food.

Efficiently, servants attended to the guest’s needs, pouring wines and exchanging delicacies across the table’s width. It was all firecrackers and bronze. Sword hilts and eager men. Bloodthirsty, more animal than human, bearing their claws and ripping silver into the starlit foods. Caves swallowed the room as laughed filled up the twilight space. Yuri felt like he was in the belly of a beast: rabbit furs, longbows, celebration. Jokes and jests and serious deep conversations. The room erupted with fiery snakes. 

All except for King Egor. He sat at the head of the left side of the table. He leaned back leisurely, his eyes trained on his men, rarely glancing at his daughter. His neck was very short, Yuuri remarked, just like his wrists. Eyes spread wide apart. Plump nose. Stubby fingers. Calloused, pink, fleshy. He did not look amused. 

Yamen’s King was talking with his head guard. The queen exchanging words with the northern princess, and the children of the fruitful kingdom sat quietly, enjoying the tender meats and seasoned bread. 

Suddenly, Yuuri’s mother rose. “Here!” Her accent was strong. Sharp, like a dagger, holding syllables hostage. Yuuri adored it. “Is the best singer the north offers!” Slight drunkenness cut her elaborate speech short. No one minded. Theirs was none the brighter. She was stilled poised and straight-backed. Like a flightless bird. Graceful legs. 

“She will sing for us! Ana, sing, and let your voice enchant us-” Before the young girl could protest, the queen carried on resilient. “Someone, bring me an instrument. Any kind will do.” Yamen’s king brought his lips to his wife’s palm and she settled back into her chair. Yuri had not realized how much time had passed. Dessert had already been brought forth, along with unsurprisingly, several more buckets of wine and booze. 

A serving boy brought an arched wooden tool saddled with taut strings. Like a bow, except more wood than not, thick with hollow oak. It had a long neck, which the strings were strung from, connected to several knobs and dice. It was a guitar. 

The girl did not look frightened. Wordlessly, she took the instrument, smoothing the wood out in her hands. She stared at it. She plucked a single string, smiled, and moved to the knobs. 

“Well?” Her father announced. His eyebrows were lifted unamused and his shoulders sagged heavily. “Get on with it.” 

Her cheeks were quickly sunburnt an apple red and she moved to stand. “Uh, where should I-” 

“Here.” The queen answered. A chair had been arranged behind the queen, several feet, teetering towards the center of the room. The light-haired maiden bedded herself on its tuff furs and breathed deeply. 

The room stilled. Time held its breath and every man stopped his feverish appetites. The air eased its dance, the fire shuddered in anticipation, and no one spoke a sound. 

Until she broke it all at once. 

Her voice rung loudly in the room. It crackled the air, thunder bolting through the particles, lightning zapping under everyone’s skins. The fire’s burst into play and the lights seemed to reflect brighter off any surface. Still, no one dared make a sound and interrupt. 

Angels burst from her throat as she sung in her native tongue. Not a word the Yamen people understood, but their hearts still swayed, captivated by the echoing and fullness of the noise. Golden clouds surfaced and fuzzed the occupant’s minds. Everything blurred. Afterward, many would admit, they could not even remember what the girl sounded like. It was too much. Too sweet. It was raw dates coated in honey, rolled in fresh sugar cane, and mixed into pressed fruits. They could only remember how the voice had made them feel after the events of the night. Light. Free. Romanced. Holy. Sinful. 

Bliss.

_________________________________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys!! thanks for reading. gosh i really didn't expect anyone to really read this so y'all who have come it means so much xoxo


	3. pink lace ballet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri Katsuki goes to lessons and ballet.

_"What do you think about the stars?" The sleepy prince murmured. Bed-worn locks fell over his eyes as he gazed sleepily at his lover._

_The white-haired boy grinned tiredly. His fingers tentatively reached out to brush aside his beloved's hair. "I think," He began, a hum easing from his throat. He scooted closer to the younger boy and buried his head in the other's slender neck. He inhaled deeply. "I think they like burning."_

_________________________________

YUURI AROSE at the beginning breaths of midday after the previous night. His dreams were plagued with the northerner’s voice. Slow, strong, gentle- and surprisingly, twisted. Like precious gold bent backward. He could not quite put his finger on it. 

He leaped out of bed and quickly checked the time. Today his teacher would be continuing him in his education. Politics, history, fine arts, manners; all were mandatory subjects for a prince’s schooling. However, what Yuuri was most excited about, was a special hobby he cultivated in the evenings. After long begging and pleading Yuuri had finally convinced his parents to allow a ballet instructor to take himself as a mentee. He dreamed of dance. His aspirations were packed full of countless daydreams of flying, swans, still lakes, earthquakes, ankles becoming geysers and wrists turning into falling petals. His thoughts would sometimes drive him wicked. 

So at the young age of four, his parents had requested an audience with one of the most renowned ballet instructors amongst the states. Minako Okukawa. She had been classically trained under the best ballet dancers known in history, was practically the ink between history books, and was the living embodiment of grace. She studied Yuuri carefully when she first met the young protege. 

He was plump and clumsy. His feet were always tied together and his body played rigidly against fluid motions. No matter how hard he tried, his body did not twist like coiling serpents but bent at awkward angles like a bruised peach. His physique did not match a ballerina’s either. Pudgy, uncoordinated, untrained, and haunted by adolescence he looked like sandpaper dried in seawater. 

Minako was inspired by the young dancer. His parents were shocked. They were sure the famous ballerina would see his potential, most importantly lack thereof, and quickly decline the offer of mentorship. That would put their naive son’s wishes to rest. They had thought wrong.

Now, several years later, Yuuri has become one of the best ballerinas among the nations. At least, according to his instructor. He has never performed in front of anyone but family and the odd friend. There was no way to accurately compare his skills to other talented dancers. However, Minako knew better and was sure of his greatness. 

Yuuri looked at himself in the mirror. Ballet had served him justice, in the very least. His body had become much more athletic and poised thanks to the art. Of course, he did not have the cold metal tendons of the warrior boys, but instead, he offered soft satin stretched over nimble bones. His collarbone was sharp and edged like the knives the warrior boys were so used to yielding. His thighs and calves were hardened by continuous strain but still held fistfuls of delicate flesh. He looked ladylike, almost, his sister Mari would tell him. 

Yuuri blushed. He did not like his appearance. He sometimes hoped he had taken a more masculine build. He sighed, the breath leaving him abruptly, and he went over to his changing rooms. 

Unlike most wealthy princes, Yuuri preferred to get dressed by himself. He liked choosing his own clothing and style. He was honestly quite good at it, his eyes were trained to notice grace and beauty, after all. 

He slipped on a white button-up and black trousers. Knee-high stockings hid under his midnight boots and a heavily embroidered jacket fell over his shoulders. The pads of the coat were thick and straight, making his chest look wider and manlier, and the intricate patterns drew attention to his upper half. It was dark with swirls of purple and green with the occasional odd white making an appearance. It was beautiful. 

Yuuri quietly tip-toed out of his room. His toes were almost always sore, begging for relief- he tried his best to ease the tension with salves and herbal mixtures, but still, his toes hissed. He had gotten used to the pain though. However, no matter the resistance his toes screamed out to him, he would do anything to avoid human interaction. This included walking on those very muscles to avoid being caught. 

He made his way to the library. It was impressive. His father loved reading, and although it was not the finest library across the kingdoms, it was something to be very proud of. It was domed, the top being completely made of glass, and circular in structure. The center floor was stocked with tables while bookcases piled high along the ruby red walls. 

And of course, sitting at one of the tables, was his teacher Celestino Cialdini. An intelligent man coming from the west, his heritage was obvious, all long dark curls and tanned skin. His hair was always slicked back into a high ponytail. It was as thick as a horse’s mane, black and gelled, oiled down with pomegranate extract and olive oil. Equally as thick eyebrows sat heavily over his light green eyes. Sideburns crept up the perimeters of his face, like a tired caterpillar, defining his already high cheekbones to the point they began to look like spears. His lips were like longbows. Arched, pale, thin. 

The man had a slight accent. It was a fresh one, strong and smooth, the sound of melting cheese on a handcrafted platter. Yuuri took his spot beside his instructor and waited patiently for his mentor’s instructions. 

“I’ve heard the castle has received visitors.” Was all he said.

Yuuri pondered for a moment. 'The northerners' his mind supplied. He looked intently at the older man. “Yes. The ones hailing from the north.”

Celestino laid back in his chair and looked straight at the ballerina. “Do you know what they want?” The words were slow-coming out his mouth. All Yuuri could do was hum.

“My father said they are in a war- have traveled long, he said and experienced many things. They seek shelter.” Celestino reached forward and slid a worn book into his strong palms. He slid the leather object between his hands, wearing down the material, seemingly lost in thought. 

He finally looked up. “I heard there was a party last night.” Yuuri grew more puzzled. Why did Mr. Cialdini look so concerned? 

When Yuuri didn’t immediately answer, the teacher continued, “And I have heard he has a daughter. She can sing. And play instruments.” Celestino leaned forward. He has known the young prince since he was first brought into this world. He was practically Yuuri’s second father. He raised him in his kingly father’s absences. 

“She can do more than that. She is an enchantress. Something wasn’t- I don’t know, right? Celestino, what are your thoughts telling you?” Yuuri nervously looked down at his lap. His palms played like scared mice upon his knees. Around and around up the clock of his forearm. His hands anxiously twitched at the wooden spleen of his elbow. He got panicked when people got like this. All serious and grave. 

“I do not trust them if that is what you are asking,” Celestino replied. He gripped Yuuri’s upper arm in his hand soothingly. “Something is wrong. I think the king should reconsider his offer of hospitality.” 

Yuuri recoiled at the accusation. “Do you not trust his judgment?” Yuuri’s words may seem dignified and hubris but it was only fear that flavored his words. Celestino was a wise man. Yuuri feared the intentions of someone he did not trust. 

“I have always trusted the king’s judgment. However, I do not trust this foreigner’s.” The teacher breathed out a hard chuckle. “I am sorry for causing such a dull mood. I didn't mean to frighten you. I am only concerned is all. Now, come, it will take the entire day to help your mathematics.”

Yuuri breathed out a shaky ‘hey!’ in comedic jest but nevertheless could not get rid of the newly formed pit in his stomach.

***

WHEN THE SUN has begun to sink back into the dark waves of night Yuuri went off to find Minako Okukawa. He had skipped dinner, for a multitude of reasons, one being his unsteady stomach making it impossible to digest any food. And two, because he was hoping to not see the northerners again, and knew with certainty they would be attending the modest dinner tonight.

Minako waited for the young prince at the studio. It was an average and respectably sized room, completely squared, with the right wall made up of clear mirrors. A barre was stretched across the room’s side and Yuuri’s ballet instructor leaned against it. 

“Miss Minako!” Yuuri shouted out. Seeing Minako brought memories of his art rushing full fourth. The sinking feeling he had been experiencing all day suddenly was filled to the brim with excitement.

The older woman smiled. “Hello, Yuuri. You look happy.” She moved like a stream to the left side of the room to grab the neatly folded pile of clothes. 

She walked over to Yuuri and handed him the stack. “Yes.” Yuuri rushed out. He was ready to be done with talking. “I really need this today.” Minako smiled brightly. 

Yuuri left to go get changed. It was a loose black top, void of sleeves, and with sides that abruptly cut down the width of his figure. The top was long and fell into his thighs. He then adorned tight black pants that stuck to his skin like wet plaster. He pulled on tanned socks and then slid on his pink ballet slippers. They were simple but efficient. Light, airy, and delicate. He always had the odd sensation he was dressing himself in precious china whenever he would tie the shoes on. 

Because of his hurriedness to began dancing, he dressed in record time, walking out of the changing room to be greeted with a patient Minako. 

Time felt like honey after that. Minako knew Yuuri disliked an audience. Because of this, she had paid copious amounts (of the king’s money, but money nonetheless) to purchase a box from the west. It was large and gorgeous. Porcelain white with little pink flowers painted onto it. Tiny green leaves would sometimes bloom from the flower stems, drawn with a steady hand, and expertly dyed paints. 

And this box made music. Minako had started a collection of big black disks since working with Yuuri. Almost like the ones the warrior boys would throw in sport, however, Minako would never handle these “records” so roughly. She would place the object inside the box and then set a pointed blade atop it. Then, the large brass horn that sheltered the item would burst with song, carrying loudly throughout the room.

Time slipped away with each stance Yuuri took. It reminded him vaguely of Anastasia’s singing. He could never remember precisely what he had done afterwards. He remembered how it made him feel. Light. Beautiful. Worthy. Shining. Strong. Independent. Enchanting. Soft. Softer.

He begged to be softer. And, with each glide of his feet, he could feel his skin become silk. He could feel his tendons become strings which he played feverishly with his every waking bone. His toes bent with poise and his arms stretched towards the sky. He wanted to touch the sun. He wanted to melt and become a puddle of pink lace. Still, he became softer. With each leep, his muscles spun into tapestries and his vertebrae turned to damp clay. He reshaped himself, his sweat loosening the hardness of his anxiety, turning it into a beautiful masterpiece of clay and decay. Constantly breaking himself and rebuilding. 

And, still, he pleaded to be made softer regardless.

_________________________________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> xoxo thanks so much for sticking around to any returning readers!! and for any new folk, welcome! introduce yourselves below in the comments; i would love to get to know y'all.

**Author's Note:**

> hey y'all! hope you enjoyed <333 i also post this story on the yoi amino so check me out there if you wannnaaa. ttyl


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